


Say It Now

by wistfulpisces



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Fix-It, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tarmac Fix-it, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock), horrific overuse of italics, no mention of the East Wind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 00:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15060797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulpisces/pseuds/wistfulpisces
Summary: Sherlock could use this, his last chance, to reveal his feelings to his best friend. He could.Basically, I rewrote the tarmac scene and made it even angstier.





	Say It Now

**Author's Note:**

> When I finished writing this, I read back through it for editing purposes and it made me cry. This was at approximately 2am. Do with that what you will.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this. Thank you dearly for reading. x

“Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?”

Mycroft is visibly surprised, and Sherlock tries not to deduce what goes through his brother’s head when he asks to speak to John. The nosey git has _known_ all along, of course, but surely he also knows Sherlock would never tell the object of his affections that the man occupies such a position in his life. Maybe Mycroft even understands why. _Probably not,_ Sherlock thinks ruefully. _Sentiment._

“So here we are,” John says when they’re alone, and Sherlock already hates the way the conversation will play out. The air between them feels awkward and strained, and he _loathes_ it.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he says on a whim.

John is confused. Sherlock loves when this happens because it’s often a precursor to his being impressed.

“That’s the whole of it, if you’re – looking for baby names.”

A weak chuckle, eyes averted. Sherlock feels the urge to reach out and raise John’s chin just so he could see the amused twinkle in his eyes, however faint it might shine at the present moment.

He thinks of the Woman. He thinks of the jealous glint in John’s expression when he’d happened upon Irene undressed in Sherlock’s presence; how his dangerous streak had glimmered just below the affable veneer, like the tip of a shark’s fin skimming the ocean’s tranquil surface.

“No, we’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.”

A grin spreads across Sherlock’s face before he can reign it in. He feels his eyes crinkle at the corners with the sincerity of it.

John will be surely a great father: he is loving and affectionate, patient and forgiving, emotionally strong and a natural carer. He will be an exceptional father and Sherlock will not be around to witness it. Sherlock might not even _be._

“Oh. Okay.”

He looks away, and when his gaze returns, the other man is suddenly unable to look at him. John turns this way and that, hands clasped behind him. Does he really want this exchange to be over already?

“Yeah, actually – I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

Frowning, Sherlock ignores the voice in the back of his mind. _Say it now. This is your last chance._ Is it worth sullying all they have and all they could have been, purely for the benefit of his own selfishness?

“No, neither can I.”

John leans toward him and whispers, “The game is over.”

Sherlock can’t discern if he means it as a joke.

“The game is never over, John.” The words come out biting, harsh, splintering the moment and threatening to draw blood. He regrets it immediately, purposefully softens his tone when he speaks again. “But there may be some new players now. It’s okay.”

 _It’s not okay, it’s not okay._ This is not the way he wants to leave the most important person in his life. John Watson deserves better than the first defensive, slightly nonsensical words that come out of his mouth. Perhaps the old metaphor is tired.

John smiles and Sherlock can’t help but mirror it – he never is able to, is he? His flatmate, his best friend, the man who saved his life… he is the anchor to which Sherlock’s heart is tied; the pin in his compass, the air in his lifejacket. His easy smile is so freely given, and Sherlock wonders how he had managed to take it for granted all these years. Now that he knows he may never witness it beyond this encounter, never watch it bloom across his features like the smell of spring in gently thawing air, he wants so much to stare at it with abandon, to absorb it through his very pores so that his senses may never forget the image.

He looks at the ground instead. No need to make such a fuss of it.

“So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?”

“Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe.” He nods, as if it will cement the statement firmly in the realm of certainty rather than in its current residence of blatant vagueness.

“For how long?”

“Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.” The words are addressed to some strands of John’s hair that are sticking up a little at the crown of his head, fluttering nonchalantly in the breeze. He thinks distantly that it’s unusual for even this small portion of John’s hair to be anything but obediently neat.

“And then what?”

Their eyes find each other and Sherlock’s are searching for an answer he knows the other pair does not hold. Does he want him to say it aloud? Does he want him to break both of their hearts, and demolish any remnants of hope for a future in which they meet again? Would it be easier for John to be with Mary that way? Easier to sleep next to her at night if he can fool himself into believing that Sherlock is off in the world on some noble adventure, fighting criminals and ensuring the triumph of goodness?

“Who knows?”

_Coward._

John accepts it with a nod, even though Sherlock always _knows_ these things, always plans and deduces and calculates. He looks away.

Even with the acrid scent of hurt and regret between them, Sherlock cannot help but stare at the beauty of the man before him.

“John, there’s something… I should say, I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock stares at the collar on John’s coat. He notices lint, some stray hair fibres and a light scattering of dust. It hasn’t been washed in several weeks, remaining laid out on the chair in his bedroom due to its frequent use and his lack of spare time, between Mary, his shifts and preparing for the baby.

 _Is it worth it?_ he wonders again. Blinks a few times for good measure.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

It’s not worth it, he decides. This, however – this silly wit is worth both the breath in every syllable and the clenching of his chest that results from the effort it takes to meet John’s eyes when he says it.

There is a tinkle of solemn, sombre laughter.

Sherlock looks away and John sees it all: sees the half-hearted, cloaked question, the yearning and the regret. He even sees the resigned request: _would it be entirely too selfish of me to want to remain a part of your life? Would you promise not to forget me?_

He wonders if this is what it’s like, being Sherlock. Does he see through every person he meets like this? See into their mind and heart and know without a doubt what it is that their words really mean?

John knows he can only perceive these things in Sherlock because he has known the man so closely for such an extended period of time. And, more than that –

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

John’s thoughts are spinning in his head with such alarming rapidity that he feels dizzy and slightly nauseous. There is a plane right beside them, Mary not far off, a security guard of Mycroft’s almost certainly standing too close and definitely eavesdropping, and Sherlock is _leavingleavingleaving_ – possibly forever. Is it worth it, _now_ of all times?

He shoves it all aside, along with his innate British masculinity, because if John doesn’t say it now, he won’t ever have the opportunity to say it again.

This man – this magical mirage of a man, this wonder of humanity – deserves to hear it.

“No – listen to me. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve believed in you and I should’ve waited and I should’ve put you first, listened to you –” Wildly, he thinks of the plethora of napkins folded to resemble the Sydney Opera House, littering the coffee table and the floor around a seated Sherlock. He had looked up at him with such a _hopeful_ expression. “– but I’m saying it now. I know it’s too late –”

A mere croak: “ _John._ ”

“I know, just – please. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Since the very first moment. And I always will.”

He looks down and Sherlock understands exactly how broken – how utterly shattered – he looks. He feels it too, in his very bones, feels every last shard of icy, bitter heartache.

Sherlock swallows heavily, pushing it down, just as he always has done.

“I love you, John Watson.”

Their eyes lock and John feels like he could cry. He thinks Sherlock looks like he might offer out a palm to shake his hand, but sees the man change his mind and embrace him softly instead. He’s glad for the intimacy of the contact. Even just this once.

“To the very best of times, John,” Sherlock whispers into the love of his life’s ear. Then he releases him, turns, and – with a nod to his brother, their earlier conversation fresh in his mind – boards a plane that will ensure he never sees John Watson again.

_I’m sorry we couldn’t have them._


End file.
